The other day I
was rushing out of the house in typical fashion. Generally this consists of me
stringing together a sentence made entirely out of expletives as a result of
not being ready on time, and stopping each time I pass the dog to pet him, kiss
him, and otherwise hug him against his will. Consistent with routine, Marc
stopped me mid-haste to give me a hug and then said, “You look great today.” My
response was, “Ugh. I look gross. I’m fat.”[1]
Marc and I go
through this same song and dance pretty much everyday, and the sad truth is
that he sincerely thinks I look great everyday. And I sincerely feel like I
look gross and fat everyday. Now, I need to pause a minute here and talk about
the word “fat”. I have issues with this word. We all have fat. Some have more
than others, but we all have it. I feel like I should also add that I see
nothing wrong with being overweight if you find peace and happiness within
yourself. To me, a person's worth, value, and beauty have absolutely nothing to do with their size or image. What appeals most to me about a person is their capacity for kindness, their willingness to love sincerely and wholly, their willingness to listen, and their ability to show compassion when it's easy to do so, but more so when it's not. And none of those qualities can be measured on a scale or reflected in a mirror. It's when “I’m fat” is uttered with disdain that I take issue,
because what is really being said there is, “I’m not good enough.” So, going
back to the story, I didn’t just say “I’m fat” with disdain, I hissed it with disdain, lit it on fire
for emphasis, and then assaulted myself with a litany of insults as I pushed
myself out of Marc’s arms.
In my mind, I
can’t just say a simple thank you to
his compliments and walk away because I don’t believe them[2]
and if I say thank you, I feel like that implies that I agree with his
assessment of my appearance, which I do
not, in case that wasn’t clear already. And let’s just completely ignore
the fact that a simple thank you is
what civilized folks call “being polite”. Apparently, this is something I have
yet to master in all my 28 years of walking this earth.[3]
But humor me here, friends. Here’s a glimpse of what is going through my mind
each and every morning that Marc and I have this exchange. And while some of it
may lack logic, I do believe I have some valid points woven throughout this
tapestry of crazy.[4]
For real, getting dressed in the morning should
not be such a humbling experience, yet here we go again. One should not sweat
while getting dressed, yet clearly you are. How is it that you can get up at
3am to go for a run, but you can’t say no to cake? Why is it that you’ve never
met a baked good that you don’t like? You know you aren’t hungry, yet you
shovel that shit in anyway. Also? The haikus about dessert need to stop[5].
Dessert is not an acceptable muse. What the hell is wrong with you? You used to
look so good, your clothes used to fit so well. You. Are. Fat.
Okay, before you
get all judgy, you have to admit I do actually make some excellent points here.
Getting dressed most definitely should not
be an exercise in humility. Sweating while getting dressed is unacceptable
unless it’s 90 degrees in the room or you are putting on compression pants,
neither of which are happening these days. Jury is still out on the
dessert-themed haikus. But, I will concede that I’m a little hard on myself in
the other capacities. If we’re being all reasonable here, I know that I am not technically overweight. My clothing size
still falls within single digits, and I known that dessert should not fall
under the category of forbidden fruit when I’m running 60 miles a week (FYI: Legs are stupid and no running is currently taking place). Logically, I know those admissions to be true. But, do I believe a
single word of this pile I’m shoveling? Nope. Not a damn one. Because I don’t feel it.
I am not happy
with where I am with my body. I am not at peace with my body, nor do I reserve
any kind of happiness for it. I hate it.
I have lost fitness and gained some serious el-bees[6]
thanks to an overindulgence in snacks. I am not in racing shape, or even
training shape. My body is less “temple” and more “garbage dump”. I don’t feel
good. And as unhappy as I am with my current physique and level of fitness,
you’d think I’d be all eye of the tiger and what not when it came to knuckling
down and getting back on track. Well, guess what. I’m not. For whatever reason,
that doesn’t seem to be enough for me to say no thanks to extra dessert this, or baked good that. I’ve tried giving myself an incentive, like a new pair of
shoes or a fun day out with friends, but it’s not enough. When I’m hungry these
days, my brain whispers, “Girl, get those
shoes anyway.” How am I supposed to argue with that?![7]
So, then I start thinking...what would really
motivate me to get back in shape and eat right again? The answer is pretty
simple, but I doubt I’ll get any takers, so I won’t even bother asking.[8]
And don’t even get me started with the whole “What about for your own health and well being?” argument. I’ve
tried that one, too, and apparently it’s not enough of a motivating factor. So,
as a result, I just keep downing the junk food and continuing with this nasty
downward spiral. I feel stuck.[9]
Now, this may
come as a shock to some of you, but I struggle with moderation from time to
time. So, embarking on a new paradigm of nutrition and fitness can be tricky
for me. Enter the part of this story that is pretty sensitive and might even be
a little TMI.[10]
The years 2014-2016 were a little rough for me. The universe delivered me
some pretty devastating blows that really hurt and knocked me down. And while I
was down, this allowed other things to catch up with me that I had otherwise
been able to outrun. It stung real bad, friends. I was in a very dark place.
Anywho, in the midst of all this I may
have whittled myself down a bit too much. And by may have, I mean I totally did. I recognize that now. I didn’t at
the time though.
In the summer of
2016, my 5’5” frame got down to 103 pounds at its lightest. My hair started to
fall out. I missed three periods. My heart would sometimes do funny things
after I went running. My skin changed. I could count every single rib and my
thighs no longer touched[11]
when I stood with my feet together. But, I honestly didn’t see myself as too
thin, and as a result, many arguments arose over this. After much debate, I
relented and went to see a nutritionist at Marc’s insistence, which, for the
record, I hated with the fire of a
thousand suns.
On the day of my
appointment with the nutritionist, I may or may not have done a little shadow
boxing in preparation for the assault of questions that I knew she would be
hurling at me like heat seeking missiles. I walked in and conducted myself in a
manner that was a delightful little blend of defensiveness, combativeness and
resentment[12].
But, despite my cardinal rule of never getting on the scale for anyone ever, I did get on the scale for the
nutritionist. I was so sick and tired of
my weight being a constant issue that I thought getting on the scale would put
this issue to rest once and for all. I’d show her.
I got on her
scale. It read 107 pounds. I choked back tears as I stepped off, which the
nutritionist could readily see. She told me that everything would be fine as
long as I put on 10-15 pounds, though 20 would be better. What she didn’t
realize, though, was that the tears I was so desperately trying to hold back
were not because I was shocked at how low the number was on the screen, but
because it was four pounds higher
than the last time I had weighed myself[13].
Even after the
visit to the nutritionist, I was still adamant that my weight was fine. I mean,
I was running about 60 miles a week and freaking
killing it. I was faster than I had ever been and I was nailing every speed
workout and every long run. Physically, I felt better than I ever had. Plus,
when I looked in the mirror I didn’t see a damn thing wrong with me save for a
pooch in my stomach that shouldn’t be there, or a fat roll when I bent over.
So, I worked to get myself back down to 103. Which I totally did, by the way.
It wasn’t until
one afternoon some weeks later that I wondered if maybe I had a distorted image
of myself. Lily’s birthday is in March, but one August afternoon Lily spontaneously
announced that for Christmas and for her birthday the only thing that she
wanted was for me to not be vegan for the day. Perplexed, I asked her why. I
eat a vegan diet, but I have never imposed that on Lily. Her reply stopped me
dead in my tracks. Her reply was this, “If you aren’t vegan, you will eat
whatever you want and you’ll gain weight.”[14]
I asked her if she thought I was too thin, and she said yes. Gulp. Say it with me...Out of the mouths
of babes.
Later that night,
long after she went to bed, I texted a friend and told her about what had
happened, and then asked her if she thought I was too thin. Sure enough, she
said yes and dropped some serious truth bombs on me. Sad and dejected, and
still feeling like there was nothing wrong with my weight, I surrendered to the
arguments of those around me and I began eating more. The problem is, I haven’t
stopped eating. I am still eating like I have the intention of gaining weight.
Where I was in the summer of 2016, on
that end of the spectrum, is the opposite problem of what I am having now.
Now, in the spring of 2017, I am going in the other direction and I cannot slow the momentum. I cannot stop gaining the weight.[15]
We’re going to
pause this party train for just a second so I can take us on a bit of a digression, okay? Marc insisted I add this paragraph into this post even though I think it's a bunch of nonsense. But, since I'm such an easy going person who loves taking advice from others, I've agreed to do it. So, I’ve had this masterpiece[16]
written for some time now and have seriously oscillated back and forth about
putting it out there for public consumption.[17]
I had Marc read it, as he is often the more level headed of the two of us, and
he was like, “So, are you going to admit that you have an eating disorder?” And
I was like, “Uh, no. Because I don’t
and didn’t. Case in point, we’re just operating under the assumption that I
have ribs because you can no longer see them. Plus, I was thin but not anorexia
thin, and now I eat more than you do. My nickname at work should be, What is she eating now? So, no. No
eating disorder here.” Then he mumbled something about alcoholics being 20
years sober and still being alcoholics, to which I replied a counter-argument
to end all arguments. I said, You’re
wrong.[18]
So, while I will concede to having a tricky relationship with my body and food,
I will not concede to having an eating disorder. Not then, not now, not ever.
But, if that’s what you believe after reading this, to each his own. You are
entitled to your own beliefs, I just ask that you leave me to my own as well.
So, anyway, let’s
get this party started again. As you can imagine, 103-pound Jessica is pretty
pissed off with Stretchy Pants Jessica right about now.[19]
103 is like, “WTF?! You were so close to double digits and then you just threw
it all away! And for what? A donut?! Unbelievable. Just pathetic.” But,
Stretchy Pants says to 103, “Oh my God. If you knew what the donut tasted like
you’d be all stretchy pants, too. So, shove it 103 and eat a sandwich
already.”[20]
Unfortunately for Just Jessica, who has to moderate the bickering that goes on
between these two, I’m in a constant war with my body. Sometimes 103 yells
louder than Stretchy Pants and I respond cantankerously to compliments.
Sometimes Stretchy Pants makes a pretty convincing argument to eat a whole sleeve
of Thin Mints when my tender heart breaks on the daily. Sometimes Just Jessica
just throws her hands in the air and doesn’t know what to do.
So, here we are.
I know technically that I’m within
the normal limits of a healthy size and weight. I know technically that my fitness level is probably better than most.
But, I also know that I could eat better, be fitter - which would make me happier - and still be healthy. I totally get
that 103 needs to go. But, Stretchy Pants also needs to go. Neither of those
two crazy bitches are healthy, which leaves us with Just Jessica. So, this is
my public declaration to try to find some balance and get back on track because
I am all about the public declarations. The last time I made a public
declaration was to qualify for the Boston Marathon and that one worked out
pretty well for me. So, it’s my hope that this one will, too. And also because
people aren’t always what they seem, and maybe I’m a little tired of the
assumption that they are. Part of what got me into trouble in the first place was trying to
maintain appearances and act like everything was fine, when it clearly wasn’t.
So, I’m calling myself out, owning my shit[21],
and being publicly and unapologetically authentic here.
So, how am I
these days? I’m pretty good. But some days I’m not, and I work pretty hard at
making sure you can’t tell when those days are. Because they are just days, not months, and I am entitled to
just smile through the rough days if it makes them a little easier to let
pass. But, I have way more good days than I do bad, largely because I’ve worked
my ass off to get here.[22]
I’ve written down hundreds of pages of my thoughts, and that seems to help. I
listen to my friends and family and won’t let myself withdrawal from them. I
stay busy, and every week I go and talk it out with a professional. I adore him
and I can’t even begin to put into words how much he has helped me. Even when
I’m perfectly self-actualized and I have all the answers to life’s great
mysteries[23],
I’m still going to go see him each week because it’s a place to go where I can
just talk about everything, or nothing at
all, with someone who understands me so well that I sometimes think he
lives inside my mind. But, that’s a big one to admit, especially given my
profession and the fact that I am largely responsible for the mental health of
many kids. I definitely feel like there is an expectation to have my shit
together if I am going to be working in this field and with kids who need
mental health support. But, flip side, what kind of a person am I if I tell my
kids at school that mental health issues are nothing to be ashamed of, and
seeking help for them is not an admission of weakness, if I cannot do it
myself?[24]
Drop the mic. I think I made my point.
So, now that I’ve
made it sufficiently weird, I’m going to wrap it up. Originally, this was
supposed to be witty little missive that I was hoping others in my community
would read and help keep me accountable in my plight to get a little healthier.[25]
[26]
Clearly, it became more than that,
but I’m just going to roll with it. Because, hey. We aren’t always what we
appear to be, but maybe we should be, and a little more often.[27]
[19] You didn’t really
think I’d list my current weight, did you? I
don’t even know my current weight because it makes me sad and mad. So, I’ve put
the scale under my bed where it can sit and think about what it’s done.
[20] Obviously these
two didn’t get the memo that they are one in the same. Two sides to the same
coin. They aren’t known for their intellect. Clearly.
[22] I mean, technically
I haven’t worked my ass off. Quite
the contrary, actually. It’s bigger now than it has been in years.
[23] He insists that that will never happen because no one in the history of ever has ever done that before. But I’m like,
“Watch me.” And then he just takes a heavy sigh, and shakes his head, because
he’s met me and knows that I can be stubborn on rare occasions.
[25] If you see me
eating a whole sleeve of Thin Mints, please promptly ninja kick those mo-fos
right out of my hand.
[26] I will also
accept public shaming. It’s controversial, sure. But, ten bucks says it works
for me.
[27] And just because
I wrote all this mature stuff down, don’t think for a second that I’ll agree to
fruit for dessert. Thin Mints? Yes. But not a whole sleeve of them.
